


He's Just Depression's Trophy Wife

by FandomTrash



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Depressed Nico, Depressing, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Loneliness, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Possibly Unrequited Love, References to Depression, Sad Ending, Sad Nico, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, god i'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 14:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FandomTrash/pseuds/FandomTrash
Summary: My life, from an outsider's perspective, may be something worrying, something unhealthy and in need of fixing.

What you don't know is that what beat within my rib-cage is long dead, replaced by an impostor; monstrous and cold, though unalike from a heart, thus meaning the use of 'cold hearted' wont suffice.

Don't tell me how to live my life.





	He's Just Depression's Trophy Wife

My life, from an outsider's perspective, may be something worrying, something unhealthy and in need of fixing. My body may look like it's calling for help, for somebody to tear me from this lifestyle I've engrained myself into. My eyes may scream for mercy, for a place less desolate than what has become of my apartment, for a place that is unlike the tomb I have given the title of 'home' for the past recent years. My actions may unsettle the lighthearted few, hell, maybe even the tougher-skinned people out there that can stand a little blood and gore.

My voice may be dry, crackling like the fading embers of a fire, the light long gone, the searing ash weakly glowing with what little life is left for it to burn. My voice may speak many words to you – tell you what you want to hear, tell you things that make you smile and divert you from the issues that lay past my teeth and tongue. My voice can be lulling to few; mainly just lies that'll make you leave faster, or, if you're desperate enough to come to me in time of need, it will weave images to help you sleep at night.

What you don't know is that what breaches past my teeth at night is ichor of the day's lies, a black tar-like substance that is bittersweet to vomit, yet bitter-sick to swallow back down. What you don't know is that what beat within my rib-cage is long dead, replaced by an imposter; monstrous and cold, though unalike from a heart, thus meaning the use of 'cold hearted' wont suffice.

What you are unaware of is the stories my bones tell me, of the long conversations me and my scars have about why I created them, the brief words with my stomach on how it aches with the emptiness I force upon it, the rehearsed lectures my lungs give me through wheezes of curdled smoke that infiltrate their cavities with the poison from my cigarettes. What you are unaware of is that I haven't interacted with what is now dormant in my head since the day my mother died, that my body is on autopilot of a life before the dismal days that I live through.

Don't tell me how to live my life.

Because what you haven't seen is how specific I am to certain needs, how I must restrain myself from the delights that I crave so much. Here's why: my father calls me rarely, usually after a stretched period of months, sometimes a year, just to see if I'm dead. What you haven't seen is how my eyes well up with reasonless tears after, how my throat constricts, choking me on sobs that wrack my body with senseless violence, a force too much for my slight frame to handle. Here's why: my half-sister calls me on the occasion that she wishes to visit, or vice versa, after a month or so from our last period together. What you haven't seen is how gut-wrenchingly pathetic I feel afterward, how the sweet words I had muttered to her through the receiver cling to my teeth, inducing that bittersweet ichor to stir in my stomach, forcing me to the bathroom once again as I dry heave into the toilet bowl.

Here's why: one of my once bestest friends calls me every week with the most appallingly concerned infliction to his voice, a hitched undertone to it all that makes guilt stab me every time as I imagine tears glistening in those sea-green eyes I love so much, proposals to meet up carrying along the line, heartbreakingly hopeful for me to say yes, and questions concerning my health, my life, _me_ rattling inside my head for the countless hours after the conversation. What you haven't seen is how I rush for the bathroom, force fingers down my throat, cough up the blood that seeps from the roof of my mouth at the roughness of my fingernails piercing my skin, for lack of anything in my stomach to rid of, how tears make my throat all the more hoarse, adding to the diluted, red mess that drips onto my toilet seat, pained whimpers seeping past my insistent fingers as misery grabs me and holds me hostage, throwing me into the crypt of deploring depression and loathing loneliness once again, in which I will reside an empty shell lost in the confines of my cramped apartment for the following week, maybe two, depending on my need for _something_ to eat. Even if it will just come back up again, the next time somebody tries to call me.

If you hadn't guessed, people aren't exactly my strongest suit, social interaction being one of the many desires I deprive myself of; for the sudden destruction of my walls after so much as saying _hello_ to one of the many people in my life. If you hadn't guessed, I am a walking catastrophe, held up only by the determination stowed away in my bones; from the life before mine that yearned to live. If you hadn't guessed, my will to live isn't nearly as strong as my past life; the one I remember so vividly in shocks and tremors of trauma that force me into a screaming, sweating mess whenever I try to sleep. If you hadn't guessed, the psychiatrists and therapists have given me pills that I swallow on routine despite the fact that most of them are out of date; powdery and dry in my mouth due to my refusal of swallowing them with liquids.

If you hadn't noticed, I am a pretty sad guy when it comes down to it; sad as in pathetic. If you hadn't noticed, I have a few loose screws; if talking to parts of my body wasn't a symptom straight away, I don't know what'll get you to believe me. If you hadn't noticed, I'm not the self-sacrificing dumbass chasing after an impossible Happy Ever After with the man of my dreams; I'm more mature this time through, I think, and thus I won't fool myself into believing I can have what I want. Even if he is the most stunning thing I've ever seen, with a smile bright enough to make me float for a while in a dreamy bliss that forms an escape from the hell of every-day living, even if his sea-green eyes force me to yearn for the happy, carefree attitude he used to carry around with him, even if the laughter I experience whenever I see him isn't as true as it used to be, strained, hesitant, almost. All this deterioration within his person? My fault. All my fucking fault because I'm a miserable dumpster fire that can't stop spreading its sadness everywhere, affecting those I love and creating this hollow feeling inside them where I used to reside with a smile.

I'm something that most people have to look at twice; an image that makes you break inside, an unstable, unreasoned desire to call your parents, tell them you love them, just to hear their voice or hug them. I'm something that some people have to look at twice; an image that makes you wonder if I am truly alive, or if I am just the ghost of something far greater than what I could comprehend, if the person I used to be died in lack of any other way I could remedy my situation. I am something few people have to look at twice; a small boy with burdened weight on his shoulders, self-pitying down to the bone, self-loathing down to the core, selfish in the end. Most people gloss over that part. Some people give it vague attention, but quickly forget that part. Few people see, reel away in disgust and horror at what a despicable force of nature I once was, what I have the ability to be now, and never forget that part.

I ache a lot; that's what sleeping on a couch you've had since your middleschool years will do to you. I cry a lot; that's what mental instability brings out in you. I lie a lot; that's what being a people-pleaser will do to you. I smoke a lot; that's what stress will do to you. I don't eat a lot; that's what lack of motivation will do to you. I don't socialize a lot; that's what having anxiety will do to you. I don't sleep a lot; that's what too many _what ifs_ will do to you. I don't do a lot; that's what depression will do to you.

Do you ever notice how people look at you? I do. Their weary, pitiful glances at my scrawny frame, at my bruised eyes, at my unbrushed hair. Their wary, pathetic glares at my corpse-like state of ignorance, at my zombie-like state of nonchalance, at my unconscious-like state of conscience. Do you ever notice how people talk about you? I do. Their muttered, meager words of belittlement in my direction – _get over it, stop being lazy, will you stop being so disfunctional?_ Their mithering, mulish hisses of torment in my direction – _Dropped to whoring 'round for money now? How many cocks did you suck for that new jacket? Bet you're still working at that fucking strip club downtown – how does cock taste when it's for money?_

What you don't understand is that it all goes numb after the first few times. They'll say something one week, and it'll bother me, but after that, it's like everything else: static. What you don't understand is that it all goes quiet after the first few times. They'll run out of something to say after the first few days, and move on to somebody else to pick on. What you don't understand is that _I never cared in the first fucking place_. It's like everything else: un-fucking-believable and pathetic, more so than I am, if I dare to say it, and something I won't waste my time with.

Most of you are probably going to ask:

_Are you gonna end it?_

_Are you gonna finally give everybody a fucking break and jump?_

_Are you gonna fucking pop pills with a bottle of tequila?_

The answer to that, surprisingly, is no. Not yet. Do you know how suicide can break somebody? Not knowing if you could've done something, if you could've made things better for them. If it was your fault for not being there enough, for not trying hard enough to see through their smiles and their lies and all that other terrible crap? Do you _know how suicide can break somebody?_

I do. Bianca commit suicide into her third year of highschool. Bullying, stress, unease and general sickness that pushed her off a bridge in Jersey. It fucking _tore me apart_ – I could've saved her, I could've done something, I could've _saved her, do you understand? I could have_ _ **fucking saved her**_ **.** But I didn't. And it's one of the many reasons I have to hate myself, but it's not like anybody knows that. Of course they wouldn't, the same way I didn't know about my sister, about my mom. Looks like this...this illness runs in the family.

So no, no, not yet. Not until they forget me. Not until they realize I'm not worth it, and then I'll go. It'll be quiet, it think; I'll slip away to the mellow in between of consciousness with the mixed variables of alcohol and pills, in the quiet of my crypt. Nobody will notice, nobody will care; like everything else.

Some of you are probably going to ask:

_Why are you still here?_

_Why are you still alive?_

_Why are you still breathing?_

To that, I can only tell you two words: Percy Jackson. I think enough is said on the matter. I don't need to explain to you the lengths I will go for him. The lengths I have gone to avoid him, to make him _forget_. One lifetime was enough, a second time is too much.

Few of you are probably going to ask:

_Are you okay?_

_Are you strong enough to fight through this?_

_Are you in need of help?_

No. No, I'm not, not really, so. Does it look like I'm fucking okay? Actually, why am I bothering to ask that? Why? God, it's pretty clear people don't care enough to _look_ , y'know, to just _look and see what the fuck is wrong_. So. No. No to all of it, all those questions that only few of you will ask, few of you will care enough to fucking ask. No I'm not okay, I'm not strong – not strong enough to fucking beat this funk I'm in, this dreaded goddamn haze that's been clouding my vision for what feels like my entire life.

But most of all?

I don't need your fucking help, I'll survive this myself, or I'll die along with it, okay? I don't _want_ anybody's help, I'm a man on a sinking ship, goddammit, and I refuse to to take the hand that's held out to me in last attempts to save me. I've had enough of it, had way too much of it, and if I die from it, then that's fine. I don't even know what _it_ is, but it's slowly killing me.

What I don't understand is how he can call me every Tuesday evening with drained determination in his voice, near pleading with me to talk to him. Pleading for me to speak, for me to show that I am _alive_ , that I am _well_. He asks me about my life, asks if I've chosen a university yet – if I've even applied for any of them. Usually, the answer is _no_ , but sometimes, I talk about how I'd like to go to Harvard or NYU. He asks me about myself, asks if I've eaten, if I've drank, or gone to see a therapist. Always, the answer is _no_ , and the conversation falls silent after that. He asks me about himself, asks if I miss him, asks if he could come over one of these days, asks if I'd like to go out one of these weeks away. Usually, the answer is _no_ , because he can't know I miss him like the gaping hole in my chest, because he can't know that I'd love for him to come over but my tomb is heavy with the scent of cigarettes and hungover mornings, because he can't know that I'd will myself to have a shower and get dressed to spend a day with him outside, if not for my imminent fear of having him reject me if I try to hold his hand.

But he comes over, one of these days I'd denied, and I don't bother answering the door. His voice drifts from under the door, “ _Nico, I know you're in there_ ,” And I try to ignore it. Turn my television up louder, despite it only airing static. Incessant knocking on my door, to the point it matches the pounding ache in my head, but I just grab the bottle by my head and chug half of it in one go. “ _Nico, let me in, please?_ ”

And for fuck sake, how can I deny him that? He asked so nicely, with that persuasive promise to his voice that swears it'll be better this time, that he won't storm out like the last time – angry and betrayed by the words I slurred to him in a feverish, venomous tone that I did with the others. So, weakly, I tell him where the spare key is, regretting it the instant my apartment door creaks open.

God, it must look so bad. No light, just the eerie blue glow of my television, the red cherry on my cigarette. God, I must look so sick. Pale, thin, smelling like the sleazy guys who like to skim their hands under the waistline of my pants as I serve them drinks. God, he must feel so repulsed.

But he just blinks at it all the those sea-green eyes, before his face splits into a smile and he shucks off his jacket and toes off his shoes, strolling over to me with a hopeful way he purses his lips. Me, on the couch, bottle of whiskey and a cigarette. That's what he's looking at. A miserable, hungover, grouchy excuse for a human being. And he just continues to smile, crouching down with something hidden behind his back. “ _Hey Nico,_ ” He whispers, and I shouldn't enjoy how he whispers my name so nicely, like a purr of affection and – _stop it, you'll only make it worse._

I blink at him in reply. He stands, resting his object on the coffee table as his warm hands gently lift me from my sprawled state. Do you know what he does? I don't think you do, at all, I don't think you know how much I love what he does next. He slips underneath me, cuddling me to his chest – I rest just above his pulse, and it's the liveliest thing I've heard in all my life. This reassuring _b-bump_ that sends tremors down my spine. Or maybe that's just his fingers, soothing circles into my back as he murmurs sweet things into my greasy, wiry hair.

“Why?” Is what I croak out, but he doesn't answer. Instead, he grabs the box from the table, thumbs open the lid and grabs my frail hand with the other. A ring. Plastic, glossy-blue in the dim light. _Promise_ scrawled on it in sharpie. A promise ring. “Just promise me I can come over again?” He whispers, slipping it onto my middle finger. Numb. I'm numb; this motherfucker wants to come back. He wants to come back, bare my wrath and my desolateness just to _see me_. I nod.

And when he moves again, he's bringing my face closer to his, rough palm cradling my face. I can't bare to look into his eyes, but he makes me, by a simple tilt of his hand, “ _Nico_ ,” He whispers, “ _Tell me no, Nico, tell me I can't have this._ ” I don't. Of course I don't, how could I?

Closer, closer, his breath smells like mint and coffee, and oh god, this shouldn't feel as right as it does. He chuckles. He pulls back. Confused, I weakly splutter, feeling rejection like a sharp knife twisting in my chest. That cold, monstrous thing that had started to thaw jars icy again, feeling like shellshock. I don't know what to feel when I blink, and he's gone.

Until I turn onto my back once again, staring at the popcorn ceiling with my two best friends. Whiskey bottle and cigarette. A tear slips down my face, I think. I don't really know, I've fallen into my limbo again. That place I go, when it all turns out to be lies I've conjured to make the loneliness feel less lonely. It's pathetic. Those moments where you lie to even yourself, just to try and forget.

“He wasn't actually here, was he?” I ask to nobody.

_No, no he wasn't, Nico._

“I was never really here, was I?” I ask, again, pins and needles numbing me.

_No, no you weren't, Nico._

“Then what am I doing here?” I ask, but this time, it's a murmur, and I don't think it was ever really aimed at anything.

_Wishing for death._

(There's a constant ringing from my phone near the door, before it stops. The digital voice informs me of a voicemail, and proceeds to read it out in a voice so alike the one I just imagined breadths away from mine. “ _H-Hey, uh Nico? Yeah, it's Percy. Uh, I was wondering, would you mind me coming over? I haven't seen you in a while. And – ha – yeah, I-I've been calling you a lot, but. I just. I miss you, y'know? so. Call me back, I guess.”_ Something drops into my stomach at the fact I can't bring myself to stand and call him.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> I. Mm. I'm sorry? Like, really, gods, what the fuck did i just write? I'm so sorry, I don't usually like unrequited Percico - _at all_ \- so I have no idea where this came from. It just sort of came to me, I don't know. Sorry. I've made myself really sad, jfc.


End file.
